Two AM
by darthsydious
Summary: Set immediately after the Reichenbach Fall. It's late, everyone is tired and hungry. Mycroft/Molly friendship pairing.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock was safely out of London at last. Molly sat boneless in Mycroft's office at the Diogenes Club, waiting for the elder Holmes to arrive. The day's main event had left her drained. But then it isn't every day you watch someone you love jump from a building. The plan worked though, and that was what kept Molly from crying. Sherlock was safe. John believed what he saw (and fortunately he was too shook up to truly observe the scene). Sherlock Holmes was believed dead, pronounced so that afternoon and Mycroft Holmes himself was called in to examine the body. Molly had spent the last forty-eight hours scrounging up lab coats and bags of blood, carefully doctoring up the paperwork. It had taken her almost until the last minute to find the body that looked like Sherlock. She was owed a few favors, and thanks to Sherlock's homeless network posing as morgue workers, and Molly 'borrowing' a vehicle to transport the body, she got it to Barts with an hour to spare. After everything had happened, and the day shift went home, she cleaned up Sherlock, taped his ribs and saw him off. Anthea brought her back to Mycroft's club through a hidden entrance to his office where she was to wait. For what she didn't know, perhaps Mycroft needed to speak with her. Or perhaps it wasn't safe for her yet.

Mycroft would be out until late, fixing every last detail. Sherlock would be somewhere over Germany by now (according to her watch it was just past eleven. Mycroft wouldn't be satisfied until the plane landed in the Czech Republic, she was sure. Meanwhile, Molly was beyond hungry. She wandered around the office, trying to distract herself from her stomach's protests.

"_Not even a sodding candy dish!"_ she thought gloomily. She dug through her pockets for her phone.

_I don't suppose there's tea to be had in this club?_

_MollyH_

_Apologies, Miss Hooper. Until I arrive, nothing must be seen coming or going from my office as your involvement in this endeavor is not common knowledge. _

_MH_

_That's charming. I haven't eaten since ten PM. Yesterday._

_MollyH_

Mycroft did know that feeling. He felt himself sigh a little; the pathologist must have been ravenous. He tapped out a quick text before turning back to the computer on his lap.

_Top left desk drawer. _

_MH _

Molly got up from her seat (shoes tucked underneath it, she'd kicked them off ages ago) to poke through the desk. In the drawer Mycroft spoke of she found a package of jaffa cakes and a few tea biscuits. Breaking the seal, she popped a whole cake in her mouth, sighing as she chewed. In a few moments, she was licking chocolate from her fingers, eyeing the tea biscuits. She thought of leaving them, after all, Mycroft did direct her to his snack drawer, he obviously used it, and he may want a snack later tonight.

"Sod that," she muttered, feeling her stomach groan in protest. Slowly, she nibbled on the biscuits, wandering around the office. It was very much as she expected the elder Holmes to decorate such a place. Rich, dark paneling, antique and modern touches throughout. She tried to be fascinated by the paintings on the walls, admiring the brushwork and likeness the artist had captured. She did find some amusement in the photograph of Sherlock and Mycroft, clearly uncomfortable standing next to eachother, Sherlock in a graduation gown and cap, Mycroft, for lack of better words, was somewhat chubbier then. Not huge but…certainly not the slight man he was today.

A few hours later, her stomach was growling again, and just when she was about to send Anthea a text, hoping the PA could slide something under the door (a slice of pizza in an envelope, perchance) the door opened and Mycroft entered, shutting it after him. His tie was loosed, and his suit was a little less…posh than normal, as if he'd been leaning against his suit jacket on the back of a chair. He plodded (yes, plodded, Mycroft Holmes was capable of looking weary) over to the table cart, pulled out the stopper to the brandy and poured himself a glass. He turned, sighing heavily when he suddenly realized that there was a person occupying the chair by the fireplace. He looked at the empty jaffa cake package, another sigh escaping him.

"Don't suppose the biscuits are left?" he asked tiredly.

"Nope," Molly swung her legs off arm rest of the chair. "Is it safe for me to go home now?" Mycroft was considering his brandy, and then swallowed it all, setting the glass aside.

"My resources tell me your flat is safe, it's been thoroughly gone over. Seems Sherlock was correct, Moriarty did not suspect you."

"No, he wouldn't," Molly shrugged. She got to her feet, with a grunt, feeling the ache in her calves and knees. "Well…I suppose you haven't eaten either, are you hungry?" he didn't say anything, not quite understanding what she was suggesting. "I'm going to go home now," she said. "And I'm going to make dinner."

"At this hour?" he looked at his pocket watch. It wasn't the first time he'd been up past midnight, but the day's events were considerably more stressful than a petty UN conference.

"At this rate, I won't have any sleep until we hear something," she shrugged. "I'm going to make french toast; you can come if you want."

Two in the morning found Mycroft (shockingly enough) sitting at Molly Hooper's kitchen table. Her cat was in the chair opposite, his yellow eyes just level with the table, glaring at him.

"You're in his seat," she said, watching the pair of them from the stove. Mycroft looked confused, wondering if she meant the cat. "That's Sherlock's chair." Mycroft was surprised. He was unaware his brother ever went to the pathologist's flat. "He comes here, or did, nights when he didn't have a case and I wasn't at work to let him in the lab," she explained, seeing the confusion on his face. While she turned back to the stove, he looked around the flat. There wasn't much evidence of anyone but Molly living there. But then, Sherlock wouldn't leave anything of his behind, not out in plain view. Mycroft could hazard a guess that there was an extra toothbrush in the medicine chest, and a spare blanket in the bench seat near the sofa.

Molly forked the bacon, turning it over, fat hissed and popped in the pan.

"I'd feed him, make him play games on my phone to keep him from getting bored and…" she pursed her mouth, trying to think of a delicate way of putting it.

"Keep him from getting high?" Mycroft asked bluntly and she nodded, sliding a stack of french toast off the griddle onto a plate. Stacking up a generous portion of bacon, she set it before him, along with a bowl of strawberries, a tub of whipped cream and syrup. He slid a few off the stack onto his own plate.

"Sorry," she muttered. "I don't exactly eat right when I'm worried…"

"Neither do I," he confessed. She almost laughed then.

"I used to fry Mars bars for Sherlock, for him to take on his cases, he could bring them anywhere. Didn't seem to matter what time, if he was hungry and a case was over, he'd be in my fridge, poking me to make him a bacon sandwich or fish and chips."

"Sherlock's diet was always wretched," Mycroft said. "He eats anything," Molly smiled knowingly, picking up Toby, she set the cat on her lap, reaching for the berries and whipped cream.

"I know, it used to infuriate me. He could have two helpings of bacon, and the grease in the pan if he wanted, and not gain an ounce. Seems like I can smell a chip shop and I feel my rear already growing."

They ate quietly for a while; conversation seemed like work at this hour. Mycroft ate his fill, and with great restrain pushed back his plate and shook his head when Molly offered to make more. The last of the bacon was divided, Molly telling him it was cruel to make her eat it all (it's never good heated the next day, and _one does not simply waste bacon_). He thanked her, promising that if he heard something, he would pass it along to her.

"Sorry it wasn't anything fancy," Molly said, nodding to the table. "I _can_ actually cook,"

"It was greatly appreciated, and better than the tea biscuits I was going to scrounge for."

"I don't know about 'better'," Molly said with a smile before sobering. "I know I can't do much," she fidgeted her hands a moment. "But…if you need anything, food I mean, or just someone to shout at or talk at," she shrugged her shoulders.

"Why should I need someone?" he asked with a frown, truly confused. Molly was reminded suddenly of the first time she offered her assistance to Sherlock; absolutely baffled that someone of their intellect could need someone like her. She looked steadily at Mycroft then.

"Because you just lost your brother, and there is no one in the world for you to talk with."

Mycroft was silent then, realizing the truth in her words. For the next six to twelve months, Sherlock would only be contacting him via encrypted text message, regarding Moriarty's network. No, he and Sherlock were not best friends; their relationship was…complicated at best. They didn't meet every Wednesday and Friday for tea, or go to lunch or even play cards (two geniuses in the same house, it was too easy to deduce what the other person was holding). But Sherlock was still his brother, and the only one who could carry sustained intellectual conversation. Molly bowed her head a moment, rubbing the back her neck.

"Look um…I know I'm not Sherlock, not even close…" she shrugged. "But I love him, and you're his family, he told me to look after you," Mycroft looked up then, surprised. She smiled warmly then, almost laughing. "I suppose he meant feed you, that's what I'm good for, so…that's what I'm here for," she shrugged. "If you need someone to talk at, or even just another person in the room, who happens to bring you plates of sweets or sandwiches, I can do that." Mycroft actually bowed his head to her then.

"Thank you, Miss Hooper, perhaps I shall take you up on that," he hesitated a moment. "You're wrong, you know, you've done much more than you realize." And he left her so.


	2. Leftovers

_I decided to continue this just because I like the idea of Mycroft and Molly slowly becoming friends while Sherlock is away. They bond over food, if you didn't know that was the main thrust of MOST of my Mycroft/Molly fics. Enjoy. _

* * *

It was two am and Molly couldn't sleep, so she did what any sensible person would do: got up and started pulling food out of the refrigerator. Sleep was fleeting these days. Almost two months had passed since Sherlock had jumped from St. Barts. He was somewhere in Mongolia, or so she had last heard in passing. Worry for Sherlock wasn't the only thing that kept her up. Lying to your closest friends did cause restless nights. Sighing to herself, she looked through the Tupperware she'd stacked on the counter, emptying the contents into the bin and stacking them in the sink. Most of the food wasn't even rotten, but she needed something to do. Coming across leftover lamb chops, she emptied them on a plate and set it on the table, finding a bowl of marshmallow fruit salad, she took that out as well, followed by a jar of cantaloupe jam, and another of dilly beans. She found an end-cut of a brisket from that Sunday, a few roasted potatoes (which went into the microwave, carrots dumped into the same bowl) and a jar with no label, but contained what she was fairly certain to be homemade mustard.

She had just put the kettle on when there was a _tap-tap-tap_ on her door. Tucking the last bit of a Jacob's Cream cracker into her mouth, she went to the door, not even bothering to look through the peep-hole. It could only be one of two people, either John Watson, or Mycroft Holmes. As the former usually called first, she could only assume it was the elder Holmes.

"Miss Hooper," Mycroft began, and then paused, looking at her attire. Self-conscious, she tugged at the hem over her oversized shirt, glancing down at the flowery pyjama bottoms.

"Give me a break, it's two in the morning," she grumbled, nodding him in.

"One would think you would be too exhausted to even hear the door," he said, stepping past her into the kitchen. "Or clean out your fridge."

"I can't sleep," she shrugged. "What are you doing here?"

He set the tip of his umbrella on the floor, hands draped elegantly over the handle.

"I was given to understand I may come here if I was in want of company."

"Oh!" this was unexpected.

"Have I misunderstood you?"

"No, not at all," she said. "I just…didn't think you'd actually take me up on it, you being…what is it they call you? The 'Ice-man'?"

"That sounds right," he said with a shrug.

"Do you want to talk or…"

"Not particularly, I cannot divulge anything as of yet," he stood awkwardly for a moment.

"Well do you want something to eat?" she gestured to the table. "It's not bad food, I just couldn't sleep and I needed something to do. There's lamb-chops and dilly beans and potatoes and carrots in the microwave." She reached for the potholders, removing the vegetables to the table.

"No silverware?" he queried, looking over the table.

"I eat lamb chops with my hands if they're cold," she shrugged. "But here's a set for the vegetables and the fruit salad."

Mycroft sat down, looking over the table, picking bits from the platters as Molly did.

"What's that?" he asked, pointing to the jar of jam.

"Cantaloupe jam, I think it's got vanilla in it," she handed him a spoon across the table. "Try it, it's one of my best."

"I didn't know you made jam," he said, and quietly dipped the spoon in, taking a taste. It tasted like an orange creamsicle, and he found himself wanting the entire jar right then and there. Practiced restraint made him set it aside. She would want some for herself surely.

"How is Sherlock?" she asked after a few moments. She speared a few potatoes from the bowl, laying them on her plate.

"He is safe," Mycroft replied. He picked up the jar of dilly beans, frowning.

"Those are good, a bit garlicky this time I think."

"You can as well?"

"I can-can." She grinned at her own joke and he winced.

"Don't joke, Miss Hooper, it, like your small-talk, leaves much to be desired."

"Ugh, you sound just like him," she said with a mournful sigh. "Is he still in Mongolia or has he moved on?"

"I am not at liberty to say, but he tells me he thinks of you often and that you should stop wearing black." She thought back to her day's outfit.

"How does he- ugh. Never mind."

"Have you a message for him?"

"Only that if he wants me to stop wearing black he can come home."

The teasing manner in her voice was gone, and her eyes softened just a little.

"Tell him that I miss him as well, and to be careful." They looked at the food across the table, knowing all of it was bad for them, and they were absolutely foolish and immature to sit there nibbling at everything like a pair of heathens. They were both quiet, thinking of the great hole that had been left in the wake of Sherlock's departure.

"These are very good." He murmured finally, breaking the moment. She looked through misty eyes to see a dilly bean speared on his fork.

"It's an old recipe."

Mycroft wasn't quite sure he knew why he kept coming to Molly Hooper's flat. She had very little of value, was not privy to information that he was not, and knew even less about Sherlock than he did. His brother often came here when he was having a bad night. Molly didn't try and offer advice or odd words of encouragement. Frankly, they hardly ever spoke. Perhaps that was it. There was no need between the two of them to make conversation. It was a comfortable, companionable silence most of the time. He felt comfortable and safe even, which was a very odd thing for either Holmes brother to feel anywhere.


	3. The Pathologist can-can

For Molly, there was little that gave her such comfort as cooking, and she was glad to explore all avenues of it. Pastries, savories, puddings, whatever your pleasure, Molly Hooper had probably mastered it. Some things had been with her since childhood, fish and chips was one, the other, was canning. Pickles, jams, jellies, fruits, fruit butters, horseradishes, relishes or mustard. If it went in a jar, she'd probably made it.

She had a day off, and this particular day happened to be the one-year anniversary of Sherlock's so-called death. Only a handful of people in the whole world knew he was not deceased (he was somewhere in Vienna at the moment), Molly Hooper being one of them. But her closest friends were all of the opposite opinion, which was how they were kept safe. Today was not a day she wanted to be around any of them, and begged off each invitation to join them at the pub and rehash old memories, claiming that she had gotten very bad stomach flu and wanted everyone to stay away, lest they catch it. It was a small lie in comparison to the charade she had to keep up, and felt only slightly guilty about it.

To keep her mind off of her ever-growing guilt, and the fact that Sherlock was gallivanting around the world stopping some of the world's most dangerous criminals, she set about doing what she did best: canning. She ordered up a parcel of groceries (just in case anyone was out and about before hitting the pub) and set out her mason jars, lining up all the tools she would need.

Seven hours later saw her carefully filling the last jars and setting them in a water bath after sealing before transferring the jars to a towel-lined cupboard. The house smelled of brine and jam and cloves and vanilla and all sorts of other smells you wouldn't ordinarily put together, but Molly needed distraction. She figured she'd get her winter canning in now. She was just checking on the jars of fig jam when there was a _tap-tap-tap_ on her door. A peek through the peep-hole revealed who her unexpected caller was.

"Don't you usually come at some obscene hour?" she asked, having opened the door.

"It's after midnight, Miss Hooper." She frowned.

"Is it?" she looked at the clock on the stove. "Oh, well, come in anyway. Are you hungry I have…" she paused, looking him up and down. "What is it?" she asked. He shut the door behind him, standing quietly where he was, as if gathering himself.

"Sherlock has been shot."

She felt herself reaching for the corner of the table, feeling as if all the wind was knocked out of her. Bracing herself, she shut her eyes, then lifted her chin.

"Is he dead?"

"No," Mycroft answered and she felt herself breath again. "The bullet was extracted, and I am assured by my brother that in a few weeks he will be up and about. He is being kept in a safe-house in Switzerland for now to recuperate. Tomorrow, if you wish to accompany me, we will take a plane there to look after him."

"I have to call work," she murmured. He wasn't terribly surprised that she hadn't even bothered to question 'if' she could. She would come.

"Already done," he was tapping out a message on his phone. "My personal assistant will make the arrangements. I suggest you pack a bag."

"Yes…I will."

"Flight isn't until five, that is the earliest I could get without raising suspicion."

"Oh," she nodded. "Well…um…are you hungry? You're welcome to wait here until then, and I don't think I'd like to be alone right now."

"No," he nodded in agreement. "I feel the same." She looked around the kitchen.

"I have um…jam. Lots of jam. The pickles I'd rather leave, but if you give me a few moments I can whip up some scones."

"You needn't feed me every time I drop by." He said, seating himself at the table.

"I know, its habit, especially when I'm fretting." A timer went off and she ran to the stove, muttering curses. Taking a pair of rounded tongs, she lifted a jar out of the pot, setting it down before lifting several more out.

"May I be of assistance?" she was almost startled by his offer for help. He usually sat and waited. "If it isn't an inconvenience," he said after a moment. "I think I would rather keep busy."

"If you could take the pot and empty it in the sink I'd appreciate it." In a moment, he had laid his suit jacket aside and rolled up his sleeves, removing the pot from the stove.

"What else?" he asked.

"Oh…well…if you don't mind, if you keep stirring that other pot there, with that wooden spoon," she nodded to the one sitting in a chipped saucer. "So the sugar doesn't burn."

"Miss Hooper, who are you making all this for?"

"I'll give some of them away," she said with a shrug. "I'll probably give a lot of them away. I send John a few jars of raspberry jam every few months, and Greg likes strawberry jelly now and again. Oh, that reminds me, I'll send you home with a few jars of the fig jam, for Anthea." Mycroft paused in stirring, wondering when Anthea had ever been still long enough for her to even get on the subject of the pathologist's cooking skills, let alone sample them.

"What is this?" he asked, nodding to the pot on the stove.

"Cantaloupe jam," she reached over the stove, taking a glass jar down and removing a vanilla bean. While he stirred she went about splitting and scraping, then turning to the fridge to find a lemon for zest.

By two in the morning, Mycroft found himself lifting jars of cantaloupe jam from boiling water, setting them in their proper place on the counter. The 'ping' noise from the seals around the lids sealing echoed in the apartment.

"Here," Molly handed him a cup of tea, the last jar sitting on the towel. While he'd taken care of the last water bath, she'd mixed up a batch of scones. She opened a jar of the cantaloupe jam, setting a spoon in it, letting him take the first dollop. They sat for a while, resting, quietly emptying the jar of jam, even after they ate all the scones. She said nothing as he scraped the spoon against the bottom of the jar, getting the very last of it. She busied herself cleaning up the kitchen, and then packing a bag up.

"What about Toby?"

"I'll have someone check on him," Mycroft promised. "Anthea is very fond of cats, as it happens," he said, seeing Molly's skeptical look.

Finally, as the clock on the wall started chiming 'four', Mycroft got to his feet, almost grunting as his knees cracked. He rolled his sleeves down, thanking Molly.

"What for?" she asked, checking her purse for her passport and wallet.

"For keeping me distracted," he replied. She shrugged, smiling in response.

On the plane, Mycroft glanced at the sleeping Pathologist who had at last given herself up to exhaustion, thinking on how Sherlock has asked him to bring Molly to Switzerland. At her feet was a paper bag filled with jars of her homemade jam.


	4. Panic Attacks and Tea

Molly was red in the face. More to the point she was red in the face and hyperventilating. Probably to do with the fact that she'd been grabbed from behind by one of Mycroft's henchmen and dragged into an abandoned warehouse. If Mycroft hadn't stepped in and forced the men out, he was almost sure she would have thrown the metal chair at them. She'd slid down the wall, sitting with her head on her knees trying to calm herself.

"If you don't stop your current intake of breath at this current rate you will pass out in less than sixty seconds-" his phone beeped, interrupting him.

_Help her breath, you idiot. – Anthea_

Pocketing his phone, he looked around, sure that they were alone, and then knelt down to where Molly sat.

"Breathe in. . .and release. . .in. . .and release…" his voice was soft and calm midst her chaotic thoughts.

Being grabbed from behind on a dark street, a gloved hand over her mouth and shoved into an abandoned car park, a thousand and one thoughts raced through her head. When two more men came out of the dark, something snapped and she saw every bitter thing they could do to her in one awful thought. Until Mycroft appeared, calm and collected and she felt relief flood her bones and she sagged to the ground. Adrenaline coursing through her, she felt herself give way to the panic attack. Vaguely, she was aware of Anthea shouting at the men, she'd never heard the PA shout, and Mycroft was angrily reprimanding them, allowing his PA to actually manhandle the two security members out of the abandoned car park.

"This wasn't how you were to be alerted," finally catching her breath; she curled her hand into a fist, punching him in the stomach. He coughed, sitting back on his heels. "Yes…well…" he coughed again. "I suppose I deserved that."

"You did," she said, breathing more evenly.

"Forgive me," he said, and got to his feet, offering her his hand. "If you will allow me to make amends, we may repair to a more comfortable setting than this place." After a moment, she nodded, deciding whatever it was he intended to tell her must have to do with Sherlock and she wanted to hear it.

Her hand tucked safely in his arm, he led her out to the black sedan, where Anthea was waiting, the three security guards were waiting on the other side of the car, two of them nursing bloody noses.

Mycroft actually took her to his townhouse, deciding after what had happened he could at least offer her tea. She sat in the kitchen at the table, hands between her knees, watching, somewhat bug-eyed as he went about fixing tea. He was all precision and manners, quickly fussing around a plate of cold meats, plating left-over Victoria Sponge, muttering apologies that there were no fruit pies.

"You…make your own tea?" he looked up from taking down a set of posh cups.

"Certainly I do. I can't be waking the staff at all hours, god knows it's hard enough to find a good housekeeper."

"Oh…um…yes…" she murmured. It was bizarre, watching Mycroft Holmes be domestic and make tea.

"Sherlock is safe," his voice broke through her thoughts and she looked up to see him holding out a cup of tea. She accepted it, pouring a generous amount of cream in hers before taking a sip.

"Where?" he smiled secretively. She frowned at him. Digging a postcard out of his pocket, he handed it to her.

"Deduce it for yourself."

"I don't…deduce…" she murmured. "I'm not like you and Sherlock."

"Nonsense." He batted at the air. "What do you see?" she heaved a sigh, blowing a stray lock of hair out of her eyes before taking the post-card, frowning at it.

"It says New Zealand, but I don't suppose that's actually where he is," Mycroft gave a sly smile.

"You're catching on."

"Ink is runny, which suggests poor quality," she tried to think of what else Sherlock did when investigating. "I'm not licking this," Mycroft made a face.

"Why on earth would you?"

"To verify the stains, whether it's tea, or coffee or dirty water. Usually he licks something to figure out what it is." Mycroft looked horrified.

"It's a weak infusion of tea, which may as well be dirty water," he replied. "He picked up the postcard in New Zealand, but is leaving some rather glaring clues as to his actual location." She brought the card under her nose.

"It smells like tarmac."

"Hmm. What can we ascertain then, from those two things?"

"Tarmac and a weak infusion of tea?" she asked. "An airport?"

"But where?" she took a breath to keep herself from flying off the handle. It was late, she'd just been practically mugged and now she was sitting in Mycroft's kitchen watching him play mother while trying to deduce where the hell a bloody New Zealand postcard came from.

"I don't know," she set the card down with a sigh. "But that's not his hand-writing." Mycroft blinked as if what she said didn't register.

"What?"

"That's not his handwriting," she repeated. Mycroft blinked again.

"That's impossible. Of course it is."

"Well I'm telling you, it's not." She reached down by her feet where her purse sat, digging through it for a moment. She fished out a well-worn letter, folded over and over. Leaning across the table, she opened it, handing it to him. "See? He uses medium pressure with a pen, so the loops in his letters aren't very big, that being said, he does not color in circles above in his 'i's', they're hardly ever more than blips on the paper, he writes with the letters leaning forward, not backward, and he tends to write in a straight line, these letters go at a slight curve." Mycroft studied the letter and then the postcard, frowning, he lowered them both, staring at Molly. "What?"

"How…"

"Filing is a massive part of my job, I tend to recognize hand-writing. Also when Sherlock takes organs from the morgue I make him write out "I Will Not Take Organs without Permission" at least a hundred times. I know his writing." Mycroft's left eye twitched. "Mycroft?" He was on his feet in a moment.

"I'm afraid we'll have to cut this short," he said.

"What? Oh, well, okay, um maybe next time just…text? Don't kidnap me."

"Yes," he nodded quickly. "May I keep this?" he held up the worn letter." Molly had half reached for it before retracting her hand. It was the first and last actual letter Sherlock had sent her. He'd tucked it in her carry-on when she left him and Mycroft in the safe-house in Switzerland.

"Will I get it back?" she asked. Mycroft was carefully folding it up, tucking it safely away in his waistcoat pocket.

"You have my word."

"Is anything…wrong?"

"I believe my brother has been…" he searched for words. "Waylaid."

"By Moriarty's network?" he nodded. He waited for her to suck in a breath and request a chair, but she never did. She nodded, her fingers tightening around the strap on her purse.

"Um…okay…well…just…thank you for tea, it was lovely and um…I'm sorry…about Sherlock, please, find him."

"We will." Mycroft answered.

"I know you will," she said, and Mycroft was touched by her confidence.

"Do you have a message for when we do?" he asked, offering her that small courtesy.

"If it isn't too awkward, tell him I miss him and I love him."

"I am sure he does of you as well," Mycroft assured, ushering her to the door.

"Right, yes, I'm sorry, sooner I leave, sooner you can work." She grabbed her coat, turning quickly back to him she pressed his cheek. "You be safe too, what hope do we have if you both go missing?" and she was gone.

It was such a small thing, a peck on the cheek. It was out of sisterly affection, he had no doubts about that, and he was surprised that she would ever feel such a thing for him. Mycroft found himself almost smiling. Almost.


	5. British Museum Had Lost Its Charm

"I didn't know the museum was open this late."

"It isn't, having a position in the government does give you your choice of meeting places. I trust this is more satisfactory than the car park."

"Oh yes!" she nodded, jogging to keep up with the elder Holmes long strides. "It's nice," she said after a moment. "Being in the museum after hours, no one getting in the way of exhibits."

"Tea?" he asked and she nodded, following him through an open doorway. A table was set up, a porcelain service waiting along with a few niceties. "I expect you haven't eaten yet, apologies our meetings often take place on your late shifts."

"No, it's fine," she shrugged. He pulled her chair for her and waited for her to sit. "So…" she said, sitting back and letting him play mother for once. "Any news on Sherlock since the postcard?"

"Mm, indeed, I'm off to rescue baby brother in a few hours, I thought I should let you know I'll be out of the country for a few days."

"Wh-what?" her cup rattled against the saucer as she set it down with a start.

"I'm afraid I cannot tell you where," he continued. "But you'll be looked after, no need to fret. Anthea will stop in on you, keep you posted, if you wish."

"Is…is Sherlock coming home? Does this have anything to do with that…incident a few weeks ago?"

"The bomb? Yes," he crossed one leg over the other.

"So he's…he's coming home?" she asked softly. Mycroft nodded.

"You may stop dreaming, Miss Hooper," he said, a teasing smile playing upon his lips. "Soon my baby brother will be back again on Baker Street, safe in your arms."

"Oh, no!" she gasped. "No, no he wouldn't- I mean…he wouldn't want me…not…I mean um- no," she finished lamely, reaching for her cup. Mycroft quirked an eyebrow.

"No?" she looked up.

"Why should he want me?"

"You love him."

"I'm afraid loving someone doesn't require the other person loving them back." Mycroft narrowed his eyes as he grinned a positively wicked smile. "Stop that," she shifted.

"What?"

"That," she gestured to him. "_That_! That smile you do, when you know something I don't."

"I know a good deal more than you."

"Yes but this pertains to me, and I don't like it."

"Apologies," he said and dropped the expression. She cut a slice of lemon cake, depositing it on his plate before cutting one herself. "Do you like this room?" he asked suddenly, and she looked around at the paintings and tapestries.

"Yes…it's nice," she nodded. "I'm not up on Serbian culture, is the exhibit here for long?"

"Today is the last day, I'm afraid, that painting there is to be removed back to the National Museum of Serbia tonight." Molly wiped her mouth, getting to her feet she went to the painting Mycroft had gestured to.

"'_Serbian Migrations',_" she read, turning to study the composition. She admired it for a few moments, taking in each of the faces before returning to the table. "I don't remember hearing about this particular exhibit," she said. Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Usually if they have something on loan, there are pamphlets or something around town, or there's a banner outside."

"It is a very small exhibit," Mycroft replied coolly.

"Still," she looked around the room. "Are all of these here on loan?"

"Most of them," he said.

"And they're flying back tonight?"

"Yes." He could almost see the wheels in her head turning. "Come now, Miss Hooper, if I wanted to tell you something, would I be this obvious?"

"You might, just to watch me squirm," she replied.

"Whatever happened to Tom?" he asked changing the subject. She looked up, surprised.

"Now you're trying to distract me."  
"With effective results," he said before continuing: "You were engaged to him, where you not?"

"I- um…yes…that was a few months ago."

"And seeing as you no longer sport the tacky ring that only two of the six diamonds it boasted were real, I can only assume you've ended it."

"Um…yes…" she shifted uncomfortably.

"Sherlock will be pleased to hear."

"What?"

"That you're no longer engaged to that buffoon."

"Why should he care?"

Anthea appeared at the door.

"Sir, your car is here."

"Mycroft-"

"As always, Miss Hooper, it has been a pleasure," he gathered his things, heading for the door.

"Mycroft, wait!" the elder Holmes paused, turning back to her. "Why should Sherlock care if I'm engaged or not?"

"If you have to ask, isn't the answer rather obvious?"

"Not to me." Mycroft lifted his chin, heaving a sigh.

"A gentleman oughtn't tell another man's secrets. Sherlock will tell you himself, when he returns in a week or so."

"Why are you leaving now? You said you had at least three hours before your flight," she followed him.

"I've some things to look over, I'm afraid, it's slipped my mind as well that fetching my brother requires…leg-work on my part," his mouth twisted in disgust. "I've a character to delve into, a costume to procure and a language to master."

"Well…um…just, be safe,"

"Aren't I always?" he left, swinging his umbrella.

"Don't worry," Anthea said, nodding for her to follow. "He'll be fine, they both will. Not much stands in the way of the two of them."

"It must be quite serious if Mycroft is going to fetch Sherlock himself." Anthea's steps faltered only briefly, but Molly caught it.

"It is," she answered softly. She glanced to the end of the hall where Mycroft had headed, then looked behind them, the other hallway empty. "Miss Hooper, Molly, I don't think I have to tell you the level of seriousness this case implies if Mycroft Holmes is having such a great part in it." It was the first time the PA looked worried, and Molly realized that Anthea might have actually had feelings for her boss. Molly squeezed the PA's arm.

"Surely…" she began slowly. "With both of them, they'll be able to manage things quite well." Anthea attempted a watery smile.

"True enough."

"Anthea," Mycroft called and both women looked up. "We must be off if we're to see Miss Hooper home before three."

"Yes sir."


	6. Medal of Honor

Molly wiped her hands on her skirt, attempting one deep, calming breath. Nope. Still nervous.

Well. Anyone would be, being twelve steps from the Queen of England. Today Molly was receiving a medal of honor for her work regarding pathology. Molly had a hunch her place in the medical world had been brought to the Prime Minister's attention by means of a certain Holmes', and as one was currently 'dead', that narrowed the field somewhat.

She'd been seated in the front row, her gloved hands twisting a handkerchief over and over. She was told she was allowed three guests and she thought unhappily of how much she wished her father was alive now. She invited John and Mrs. Hudson, but the elder woman declined.

"Oh my goodness, I couldn't, me, in the palace, I'd absolutely faint, I'd faint!" she waved her hands, touching her hair, unable to even bear the thought of sitting on a guilt chair in the ballroom of Buckingham Palace. Molly turned to John, who only shrugged with a grin.

"What the hell, I've only been to the palace once, might be nice to go with someone who doesn't forget their trousers." So with a giggle and a grin, Molly had someone to hold onto as they neared the ballroom. Once seated, she fished around for her kerchief to keep her hands from fidgeting or touching her fascinator. Mary, John's girlfriend, had assured Molly she looked smashing and that if she dared try to fix her make-up, or cry or do anything to her hair, Mary would absolutely screech. She also insisted John take dozens of pictures since she had to work and couldn't come.

"You'll rip that if you're not careful," John murmured, and took her hand, lacing her fingers in his. "Go on, squeeze away," he said and she managed a nervous smile.

"Doctor Molly Hooper for her services to the field of medicine,"

"Oh God," she breathed. John squeezed her hand, and she uncrossed her ankles, getting to her feet. From where he sat, John easily took a few pictures, able to hear Molly's soft voice, and Her Majesty's polite comments:

"I understand you've made great strides in your particular field."

"I suppose I have, your Majesty, very good of you to notice," the pin was in place, so the Queen folded her hands before her.

"It's quite brave, what you do. Not many ladies in your field."

"Not my particular field, no ma'am."

"All the more reason to show up the men," the Queen was smiling at her joke and Molly was trying her best not to laugh.

"Yes, ma'am, thank you," the Queen was already holding out her hand so Molly shook it, bowed from the neck and backed up three steps to the start point before turning and finding her seat.

"I think you nearly melted!" John laughed once the ceremony was over. They had their picture taken, official photographers promising it would be mailed to her. "I wish I could stay and celebrate," John said unhappily. "Had to fight just to get the morning off,"

"Oh that's alright!" Molly said quickly. "It'd be no fun, just the two of us, Mary always livens things up."

"Why don't we have dinner tomorrow night? We'll all get our fancy clothes, go somewhere extra special. You two can fight over me on the dance floor, we'll order champagne and ridiculously expensive food with intolerably small portions."

"That sounds fun!" Molly laughed. "Count me in if it all works out."

"I will, congratulations, Molls, really, I'm proud of you." He kissed her cheek before bidding her goodbye, climbing into the waiting taxi. Before she had a chance to hail a cab for herself, a Royal Guard touched her arm.

"Doctor Hooper?"

"Uh…yes?"

"If you would follow me."

"Sorry, um, yes, of course," she hurried after him, trying to keep up with his long strides. "Is something the matter?"

"You've been summoned."

Oh dear. That sounded serious. Heart in her throat, she followed the guard through the main entrance, down to the portrait gallery. To her absolute relief, Mycroft was standing there.

"Mycroft!" she gasped, relieved.

"Miss Hooper," he nodded to her, a smile upon his lips. "I understand the ceremony went well."

"Yes," Mycroft nodded his thanks to the guard who saluted him and departed. "The queen spoke to me," she bounced on the balls of her feet, unable to contain her glee.

"I saw, you did very well. I am surprised you are not out celebrating with Doctor Watson and his soon-to-be fiancée."

"Not until tomorrow night," she said, still beaming from ear-to-ear.

"Then perhaps you'll allow me to take you to tea, as a little treat," he said, offering his arm.

He took her to a private salon in the palace, high tea was already set out, political figures milled about the room, some jovial, others more serious.

"Heavens, I'm the only one in pastels," she murmured with a laugh, glancing down at her light blue silk. She was about to ask who all the people there were when suddenly the door on the other end of the room opened and there was the Queen. Molly grabbed Mycroft's arm in lieu of the gasp she so desperately wanted to take in.

"I'd like to tell you that you are here merely as my 'plus-one' as they say, but in reality, you were requested by quite another person, who is rather fond of blue."

Once again, Molly found herself bobbing a curtsy to the Queen, and with a trembling voice, answering her questions as best she could. After a few moments, the Queen nodded her approval. Mycroft bowed at the neck as she passed him, smiling his thanks as she complimented him on his choice of company.

Tea was superb, and the food did not disappoint. Molly and Mycroft could not speak as freely here, this was his territory and she was petrified of embarrassing him. However she did notice that he particularly favored the peppermint creams and wondered if she could mimic the recipe for him. She chatted with the Prime Minister and accepted praise from one official after another, nearly losing her head when a certain prince beamed at her and shook her hand. Mycroft was at her elbow only a few minutes into the conversation, and the royal left, smiling cheekily at Molly before departing.

"Heavens," Molly was flushed when tea was over and the group dispersed. Mycroft gave his arm, leading her out of the salon and back through the portrait gallery.  
"Shall I drop you off?" Mycroft asked and she nodded.

Once in the car, she finally relaxed, letting out a heaving breath. Mycroft only quirked an eyebrow.

"You may be used to it, but I'm not!" she said.

"Indeed, of course, I have never been so blatantly flirted with by a royal, so I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage."

"He wasn't!" Molly gasped. Mycroft only gave her a look. Instead of looking shocked, Molly only collapsed into a fit of giggles, covering her cheeks with her gloved hands.

"If you've quite finished," he said with a wince and she smothered her smile as best she could.

"Sorry, it isn't often I meet royalty, let alone have one chat me up."

"What would Sherlock say?" Mycroft queried.

"He wouldn't care," Molly said with a shrug. "He was always against knighting, wasn't he?" Mycroft hummed in response. Anthea, who had been quiet up until that point glanced between the two of them.

"Still," she said, speaking up at last. "Why not have a picture of you and your medal?" Molly took the box, her invitation and held them up, her beaming smile once again graced her rosy cheeks as Anthea snapped a picture before attaching it to a text.

"Where is he?" Molly asked and Mycroft pursed his lips. "You said he was safe, when you got back the other week, is he still or…" she fidgeted with her hem.

"He's quite safe," Mycroft nodded. "In fact he could not be in a better place at the moment."

"So…he's-he'll be staying where he is…for a time?" Anthea glanced at Mycroft from her phone, attempting to hide a smile.

"Oh…a day or so, I'd imagine. Perhaps longer, depending on a few things."

"Yes of course," she nodded. The car came to a stop outside her building and the driver jogged around to her door. "Will you come up or do you have things to do?"

"I always have things to do," Mycroft replied. "I'll not come up today, thank you though. Do tell him I said he was welcome."

"What? Who?" but the door was already shut, the window rolling up.

"Ta-ta," Mycroft said before the window was shut and the car pulling away. Molly stared after the car, confused, then up to her flat, a curtain was pushed aside for a moment, then shut again. She ran for the door, taking the steps two at a time.

She could hardly get the key in the lock, hands shaking. Heart pounding, she shoved the door open so hard it bounced against the wall and slammed shut behind her.

There in her living room, a familiar figure stood facing the windows, a mobile in their hand. She could see from where she stood the screen displayed the picture Anthea had only just taken of her.

"Sorry I couldn't make the ceremony," his timbered voice seemed deeper than she remembered. Slowly, she approached him, he hadn't turned around yet. "I was rather caught up with…" he waved his hand in that familiar way she thought she'd forgotten. "last minute...things." At last, he turned to her, his face thinner than she remembered, but his eyes were still the same, holding the same warmth and kindness. "But I understand you were quite popular there."

"Well…" she managed, finding it difficult to speak. "I didn't forget my trousers…like some people."

"Trousers are stupid," he said and swept down upon her, capturing her lips with his own.

"You're here," she gasped when they parted at last. "You're really here," his eyes softened and his smile was tender as she reached up, hands smoothing over his face, his dark curls as if making sure he was real.

"Yes," he nodded, he covered her hands with his, kissing the edge of her palm.

"Are you here to stay?" he nodded again, moving to kiss her. "I have to thank Mycroft," she murmured.

"What for?"

"For bringing you home."

"I got myself home," she pulled back somewhat, giving him a look. "Mostly," he shrugged and drew her closer. "Thank him later, you're still welcoming me home."

"Just a moment," she said and grabbed her phone, tapping out a quick text. "There, done."

~O~

He'd just pulled up to the Diogenes Club when his phone beeped. Swiping his thumb over the screen, he checked the message, smiling at the name.

_Will thank you properly when your brother lets me go. But thank you truly, dear one. MollyH_

Mycroft tapped out a quick response before pocketing the phone.

_Do try and eke a proposal out of him while he's still weak from travel. –MH_

His dinner had just arrived when his mobile beeped again. Anthea checked it for him, then, with a knowing smile, handed it to him.

_Done and done. MollyH (soon to be Holmes)_

Attached was a picture of Sherlock holding Molly's hand, an attractive diamond glittering on her ring finger.


End file.
